


The Wet Collection

by Ocean_Hair_Girl (The_Pocky_Princess)



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Accident, Accidental wetting, Alcohol, Angst, Cute, Drinking, Fetish, Freaky, Grinding, Jean - Freeform, Kinky, M/M, Marco - Freeform, Masturbation, Modern AU, Omorashi, Pee, Piss, Romance, Sex, Sexual Content, Teenagers, Urine, Watersports, Wetting, dorky, probably angst, wet beds, wet dreams
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 17:56:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14242698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Pocky_Princess/pseuds/Ocean_Hair_Girl
Summary: THIS CONTAINS OMORASHI/WATERSPORTS.IF YOU DON'T LIKE URINE/OMORASHI/WATERSPORTS/WETTING, THEN THIS IS NOT FOR YOU.There, all disclaimered.Yeah I'm omorashi trash, welcome to hell.This is completely self indulgent but feel free to send some writing requests to me over on my tumblr  @thighhighomoThanks :) :)





	The Wet Collection

Night time is always calm and quiet. Especially when you live in a suburban haven. A large house, detached from the neighbours, lots of greenery, backing onto some woods... It's wonderful, really. You might hear an owl if you leave your window open, and be greeted by the birds in the morning.

The room is pretty dark, lit only by the moonlight pouring in through semi-open curtains, that had been lazily pulled together. The silver beams in through the curtains, stretches across the door and just barely touches the bottom of the door. The window is a little ajar, the breeze makes the fabric shift quietly in the night, and it's wonderfully calm. The only other glow is the red of Marco's alarm clock; 3:31AM. 

He's piled in bed, also a pretty usual sight. Laying out on his back, the covers have been kicked off and are slightly tangled around his foot, his shirt has ridden up around his broad, freckled chest, and he's otherwise only covered by his signature colourful, dorky boxers.  
Tonight's choice had been bright yellow with bananas printed on them. 

Nice.  
Jean loved them, anyway, and that's all that really mattered.

He's barely snoring, with an arm draped dramatically over his eyes from where he'd fallen asleep a few hours prior.  
It had been a bit of a mistake really. He'd been out drinking with Jean and the rest of the gang; and ended up getting basically dragged home by Reiner after getting perhaps a little bit too drunk too fast. He'd rolled himself into bed at least, but the rest of the boys were probably still out partying the night away.

He'd gotten to sleep pretty quickly after being forced a solid pint of water down him anyway, to try and alleviate the impending headache of the next day. Marco was pretty notorious for being both a lightweight, and having horrendous multiple-day-long hangovers at the best of times.

He sniffles a little, skin slightly prickled by the cold as another breeze rolls through the open window, and the curtains clatter a little too, a few comic book covers rippling where the air had caught their dog-eared edges.  
Marco never had been a tidy one.

 

The clock strikes 3:42, and the first urges appear. He's mildly uncomfortable, but the beer haze and comfort of the plush mattress he owned, and the montage of pillows scattered around his head distract the sleeping boy from his body. He nestles down a little more, managing to hook his arm under a larger, nearby pillow up against the wall. His dreams were mostly of the night he wanted to have.

Friendly drinks with the boys, some games of pool in the bar; maybe some questionably raunchy dancing... How Jean would definitely grind up against him. The boy was such a horn dog, and he liked nothing more than winding Marco up until his social awkwardness is overidden by pure hormones.  
How he'd get over it and drag Jean to a dark corner and have a messy make out session with him, drinks forgotten...  
If only.

But he could dream, and he did for quite some time, entirely unaware that nothing was real. The hands of Jean slowly working down his bed, strong fingers kneading into plush thighs and working at his pants, were sadly nought but a dream. The immense turn-on however, was entirely real.

It felt real, and that's what counted. Watching Jean shuffle to his knees and drag that zipper and button open, drag Marco's ridiculous boxers off without question, kiss up his shaft and play with him, tease him with a pointed stare. Flutter those eyelashes up at his boyfriend oh-so-innocently, before delving down and taking him like a true pro.  
Cute he may be, but innocent Jean certainly is not.  
He can feel it- the intense suction, the friction and the warm heat. The way Jean works his base with attentive fingers, working his way further and further down, the way he'd trained himself to ignore his own gag relax, just to pleasure the living hell out of Marco- and how it worked every goddamn time.  
He'd never get tired of watching Jean go down on him, it was a religious experience for sure.

By now he's genuinely hard, boxers tented in the cold air, and Marco grumbles to himself in a half-asleep tongue, before he decidedly rolls onto his side. Throwing his dramatic arm over the pillow instead and dragging it closer to himself, press his body into the weight of it... It felt like Jean. 

And the weight feels good when you're a little too hot and a little too into it. Grinding up against the pillow with the delusion that he was in fact, just grinding up against his gorgeous, skinny twig boyfriend.  
He knows how the heat in his gut builds up, coils up tight like a spring ready to release; and falling over the edge with a very real groan into the early morning air, pressing his face deep into the soft outside of the pillow, shuddering against the surface and riding out the waves of an accidental orgasm. It wasn't the first time.  
And neither was what followed.  
His boxers had a rather sizeable damp spot from where his cock had been resting anyway from his apparent excitement, but after a few short moments it grows a small inch.

A leak.  
Warm and dark on the yellow print.  
He shifts again, trying to get comfortable against his pillows again, and the pressure is getting all too much for a beer-filled bladder tucked inside olive toned skin.  
He dribbles again, the patch extending further down the vague curve of his cock this time, not quite making it to the pillow.

And then it's breaking point.  
There's a shudder; a sigh that breaks into a pitchy soft little moan. And his body shivers gently, body releasing it's pent up contents at last.  
A gentle hiss fills the air, the sound of barely running water, dripping out of a tap. The dark patch darkens again, runs a little further and soaks into the white of the pillow. It turns it gently grey where it touches, barely coloured from all the drinking.

He shifts- vaguely aware of this strange heat, and rolls onto his back, legs spread.  
Now free to move; the liquid runs down over his balls, soaking into the boxers as they go, and dribbles eagerly into the sheets below. Running too fas to be absorbed at once, a puddle forms under Marco's ass, and slowly works it's way along the backs of his thighs, follows the wrinkles in the sheets and works it's way further and further down and along the bed, warming his legs as it goes.  
It can't last forever of course, and with a little whimper the flow slowly dribbles to a halt, having expanded it's hold, and the built up liquid has a chance to settle, darkening the lilac of his bedsheets, and turning his boxers and leg cold and clammy.

Unaware of everything; he ontinues to sleep a long while longer, undisturbed by the chirping of the morning birds outside, or how the silver moonlight changes into golden rays of sun, and slowly crawls across the floor to illuminate his bed... and his accident.

It would be an interesting morning to wake up to, for sure.


End file.
